


Narcissus

by Nygmatech (orphan_account)



Category: The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Narcissism, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 09:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Nygmatech
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Concealed within the nature of humans is an inherent love of oneself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Narcissus

narcissus

You did not realise, when you started, how much you would lose to your other self.

The (potion, medicine, drug) is vile as it slips down your throat, and it burns and burns and you double up in the pain, clutching at your stomach and then your head and it’s not like you didn’t expect this anyways. Because your body is breaking within you and fitting itself into someone else, some _thing_ else. Hyde smiles at you in the mirror, charm and innocence and you really can’t see anything wrong with that.

He holds his hand out, an offer.

(This is the instance that defines you, how London begins to write you into its memory; like Jack the Ripper and Joseph Bell, like Sweeney Todd and Benjamin Barker, like James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes. There was no Dr. Jekyll until London decided there would be a Mr. Hyde.)

\--

The first time is always the hardest. You wake up, slumped over the work table in your lab, chemicals and broken glassware scattered about you, and you can’t quite recall, but you sit up, shaking and all the more tired for your trouble. Your timepiece reads nine, and the mid-morning sunlight shines in through the grimy window.

In the mirror, Hyde brushes the hair from your eyes, smooths it back from your forehead, straightens your glasses--leans in close, whispering tales in your ear that you can’t quite bring _yourself_ to believe.

A breath of air against your ear. You shiver, paralyzed with fear and not stupid enough to turn around.

(In the mirror:)

A pair of arms around your waist, pulling you close. Hyde rests his chin on your shoulder, dark tunnel eyes filled with something that might have been pity.

_Don’t be afraid of me,_ he seems to say, and a smirk coils across his lips. _I’m only what you want me to be_.

You look away, from your reflection. Tendrils of _Narcissus poeticus_ crawl up your spine, making you sick with the heavy fragrance of it.

\--

But it’s lonely, sometimes. Being alone. And though that sounds terribly redundant, you’ve never felt quite _lonely_ before, not like this. You have your servants, yes, but they’re practically furniture. You have friends, but you haven’t seen Lanyon in years, and Utterson would never understand, _could_ never understand someone like _you._

_I understand_ , whispers Hyde, somewhere in the back of your mind.

And you know he does. Perhaps that frightens you a little.

You take a breath.

“Stay.”

In the mirror, a single pomegranate seed passed mouth to mouth.

(Hyde tastes like promises.)

_Always._

(Be careful what you wish for.)

\--

Slowly, you even begin to believe him—Hyde has done horrible things that you understand now _must_ have lurked in the back of your by no means lacking imagination (you dreamed _him_ up, after all, didn’t you?). It’s horrifying, really, but… isn’t that the point? Hyde can do things you cannot, can never do for fear of reputation.

And the next morning, he fills in the holes in your memory with his saccharine voice.

You can see him today. Curled against you, the red silk sheets draped across his body, pooling at the undefined edges where he ends and you begin.

And it will happen like this:

The sheet will slither from his body, and you will embrace, and he will whisper in your ear—

_(here let me show you)_

He covers your mouth with his own, and his skin is hot against yours. Your blood runs cold in the heat of the moment.

Slack-jawed, you lie there, lifeless, a rag doll for him to play with.

He touches you. Trails his thin pale hands down your hips, licks at the base of your throat, marks you for his own.

Your eyes glass over.

_Love makes you a fool_ , Hyde purrs into your ear.

“Yes,” you say, and look into the mirror.

\--

You shiver. Draw the red silk sheets closer around your body, curl in on yourself, and if you close your eyes you can still see a Hyde-shaped space burned into the insides of your eyelids, long fingers stroking through your hair in the afterglow.

_Shh,_ he whispers, as you flinch and draw away. His grip on your hair tightens until it becomes painful. _It’s only me._

\--

When you were ten, you thought there was a monster living under your bed.

_“…Edward?”_

(The funny thing is, it’s only now that you’re realizing he’s _in_ it.)

\--

_and it goes like this:_

In the morning:

Hyde rises from your bed, his hair tousled, dressed all in a too-big nightshirt, one of yours; it slips from one shoulder and hangs off of his tiny frame, and—

And he is alone.

(And he is real.)

And he looks, into the mirror, and your face peers back at him in terror, tired and drained and too weak to stand. You slump against the chest of drawers, and in the mirror, he sinks down with you, cups your thin face in his long hands, caresses—

“Oh, Henry, my _dear Dr. Jekyll,_ ” he says, and laughs, and revels in the sound. “I think it’s about time I had my turn, hm?”

_please—_

Kisses you.

_razor-sharp teeth grazing your lips, the taste of him metallic in your mouth, pouring down your chin, red red red—_

(Hyde tastes like pomegranate.)


End file.
